


Papaveraceae

by VsaFic



Series: That one time tristana almost got longbow’d to death in Demacia after Sylas’ revolution [2]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: (PTSD themes hinted), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Existentialism, Nostalgia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Fae Bladetwirler from Legends of Runeterra is also there, The central theme of this series is, There’s actually a few LoR minor characters, ”Sylas unwittingly catalyzes a lot of character arcs”
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VsaFic/pseuds/VsaFic
Summary: Poppy’s not been faring too well emotionally since Sylas’ uprising. Two people arrive at the camp she’s settled with Lux to disrupt her peace even further._No longer just a two-shot. Rated T cause it doesn’t feel like a family reading.Edit 27/04: undergoing stylistic corrections frequently (forgive me, I’m an ESL speaker, but I still want my writing to flow)
Relationships: Katarina Du Couteau/Garen Crownguard, Lulu/Veigar (League of Legends)
Series: That one time tristana almost got longbow’d to death in Demacia after Sylas’ revolution [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654630
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	1. Papaver Rhoeas

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been rlly bothered by the non existence of poppy while Demacia is going to shit, where IS SHE 
> 
> Choice Track: Viens — Françoise Hardy

Poppy's stopped believing in heroes for a while now.

Okay, actually, maybe she’s not _truly_ stopped believing in heroes. Rather, her definition for the word has warped. She’d _never_ doubted her nation, not even since the times of Orlon. He was far gone and she still didn’t hesitate on the reliability of Demacian morale; the _splendor,_ as the people called it. She was certain the Hero would be some Demacian archetype traced over a Vanguard soldier; tall, beefy, steadfast, self-sacrificial; invariably willing to give up till the last drop of his blood for justice and life and the people’s safety. That was, of course, until Sylas of Dregbourne. Then the illusion broke.

Sometimes, she jumps awake when the sky is at its darkest; past midnight, the world silent, still save for cricket chirps; choking. She’s had dream flashbacks to the grip of Sylas’ chains for a while now. Maybe it isn’t even because of the chains themselves that she remembers them so dreadfully; maybe what _truly_ tortured her was the dragged-out recovery in Bandle, slipping in and out of a bloody delirium. She was alive because of the _kin_ , and that planted the seed of hesitation.

Demacia had a penchant for making her forget she was a yordle, just about the most innately magical thing out there. She knew she was alive only because Luxanna saw him coil metal around her torso and the Hammer, pulling it from her hands cause, in his words, it was meant for him; because she then trekked nearly without rest for a day or two until she delivered her, half-dead, to the nearest portal; cause she figured out the radio’s foreign tech through wit only so she could SOS Kennen—who SOS’d Teemo, who greeted her with a gentle smile alongside Tristana at the portal pillar as she passed out atop a stretcher.

Mostly, she was alive because she knew it wasn’t her time. Because she refused to die. Death would be peaceful, but it would also cut her purpose short; and she wouldn't allow it. She still doesn't.

She woke up after six weeks in an urgent care wing of the Bandle City Army Hospital. The treatment had been intensive, and magical for the most part; mana replenishments and transfusions and nourishment for her body as it fought its way back to life. If she hadn’t been so gods dang stubborn, maybe she wouldn’t be here.

Six weeks was all she was gone. She returned to her main hut in the Great City, a place that only seemed so luxurious for yordle standards cause everything in it was so big when compared to herself. A letter was pinned to the door. She’d already felt rather fragile through her recovery, ruminating for hours on how _magical healers_ had been the ones to save her butt so she may continue pursuing her life’s mission, and on Sylas’ assault—soreness still lingered in her midriff when she moved wrong. She had to get on tippy toes to rip the parchment off the fine dagger that had been brutally stabbed on the wood. _Pretty unsettling._

 _Addressed to: Poppy Flowerthorn_ , read the first line in impeccable diplomatic Demacian. The lettering was beautiful; a scribe had to be the one to pen it.

 _Message_ _from: SENIORS of the DAUNTLESS VANGUARD; servers and protectors of HIS MAJESTY JARVAN LIGHTSHIELD IV_

 _Oh cuss!_

Her heart had done leaps in her chest. That was Hero Hub! Had they caught up to her noble task of Keeping? Would they allow her to scout in their lines for the finest men and women?

_Ms. Poppy Flowerthorn;_

_You cannot fathom our joy when the upturn in our Nation, led by Scum Sylas of Dregbourne, ended up secondarily offering a lead to one of our most prized historical Relics; none other than the Hammer of Orlon, who headed the caravan that would plant the seeds of what would become our splendorous Kingdom._

_Likewise, you cannot fathom our horror at learning of its Keeper._

_A creature tainted with Magic’s Filth is, at its mildest, unfit for such task, and at its most severe a corrupting force on our Kingdom’s holiest core. You, a Yordle, a host of Filth aplenty, are but a bastardization of a Keeper; a poor parody of such. You have tainted the roots of our sanctuary with your presence and possession over Orlon’s Hammer; thus His Majesty decrees we will purge your bloodline from our land._

_It would be dishonorable to ambush you, as the Demacian Splendor dictates we, its highest representatives, not stoop so low as to use Noxian habits of War. Thus, we have pinned this message on your Abodes over Demacian land, aided by the knowledge of our people. You have been warned of our Hunt. Heed our words._

_HEAD of the DAUNTLESS VANGUARD_

_servers and protectors of HIS MAJESTY JARVAN LIGHTSHIELD IV_

Only three hours later, she’d been frantically running, few possessions in hand: Rations, a couple spare outfits, a water flask, first aid supplies, a heavy duty knife, a tent, and the Hammer itself on her—not much other than that. One of her hideouts half a day’s march from High Silvermere, secluded in the quiet comfort of a small village’s surrounding forest, had a working radio set. Of course, her former home at the capital did too; but it’d be specially naïve of her to address her City and speak with the kin while so close to where the Vanguard itself had its head corps. She preferred braving the trip.

She’d been ignorant of her own heartbreak through her nonstop march, wholly focused on baseline survival; only once Teemo’s and Tristana’s voices rang on the other end of the radio line, only after she read them the letter, did she finally dissolve into a blob of tears and panic.

 _Run away_ , was all Teemo had said. _Don’t turn back; you can come here if you need to_.

 _I **did** find two copies_, she’d shrieked in return, _There was another on this door. They did put it everywhere. Oh my gods, Teemo, they’re gonna kill me. They’re gonna kill me and go for Bandle_.

She was only starting a second rush to the nearest portal—Vanguard men had closed off the one around her hideout—when she stumbled into Lux and a line of mages navigating her same hidden path. she had taught the Lady of Luminosity about it, herself. It made her double-take, that was how unexpected it’d been; it was a path saved to be traversed by the few who were as keen and attuned to Nature as a yordle.

 _We don’t like Sylas, and we don’t like Jarvan either_ ; was the takeaway from her conversation with Lux. _We will set up a camp where we shelter mages and prepare to rebalance this madness. Demacia’s falling apart, but we will glue it back together._

She decided to travel along Lux for the remainder of that day, use her own yordle blood to help the party along the trail; lead them to a clearing where the entourage could unpack for the night.

The following day, she’d made up her conscience, and was heading the party once more—set to rescue whatever mage they could along the way and build a base with sweat and blood to arm up and fight for what was right. Not Sylas’ unbridled fantasy of flipping the powers; not Jarvan’s recent insane paranoia. For justice, only.

She’d skimmed past the portal, unaware in her frenzy that she didn't speak to Bandle’s elite duo again.

Garen joined them about half a month after the fact. He’d fled High Silvermere; Jarvan would not take kindly to having mage bloodline around the Dauntless Vanguard. He fought his way out with whoever tried to interfere with his escape, he told them. The kingdom had taken a serious downward spike since then. Around that time, when Garen was exiled, she’d decided for good that she would stop putting the Hammer in any other hands than hers.

She wouldn’t know where to look for a hero for a long while—But she could keep the hammer safe from hands as greedy as Sylas’ and as bloodthirsty as Jarvan’s.

 _Keep_. She was the Keeper, after all.

* * *

She’s snapped out of her reminiscing by Fae. The camp finally having a working forge so their refugees and combatants can self-sustain their weaponry has allowed her an escape from life; she hadn’t realized she needed that so direly. Ten days; that’s how long she's been crafting various trinkets for the camp. Kennen and Akali have come over sparsely to begin tutoring on what they know on Ionian smithing, a knowledge she’s taken great pleasure in absorbing. Other Kinkou folks keep walking in and out to offer their own input or do personal work; and she takes humble pride in observing so she can arm the Ionia chunk of the camp as well as she does the Demacians. Fae herself has spent a few hours by her side, critiquing her handiwork.

The Bladetwirler doesn’t look down on her like the humans do; Poppy hadn’t even fully acknowledged how much she missed interactions free of condescending baby talk and headpats. Kennen’s adapted to let the Kinkou manhandle him retaining a semblance of dignity. She’s never quite reached that level of intimacy with Demacian folk; spending so much time alone wandering the land in her destined search.

Fae, right now, seems agitated, if anything.

“Pop,” she says, breathing in after what was clearly a run towards the artisanal forge. “We have a situation at the gate.”

The smithing mask is off in an instant. “What is it?”

“The anarchists,” she answers in a huff.

“Crap.” She quickly dips the red-hot dagger-in-progress in oil, waits until it’s stopped fizzing, and strips the thick dressing of fabric and leather that protects her from the heat. “Bold of ‘em to pop out here. People have been searching for us even _worse_ ‘cause of their little stunts,” she groans.

“Well,” Fae sighs. “It's bigger than just that. You remember how gossip kept saying that people can’t agree on what they look like?” She gulps. “We know why _that_ spread around now. It’s because they were using polymorph spells.”

Poppy takes a deep inhale.

“And they’re kin.”

Poppy takes a deep exhale.

The Keeper rubs the bridge of her nose sternly. Kin, huh. _Who_? She mentally lists all the kin who’re outside that she can recall. One’s Noxian to the marrow, can’t be him. Two are in Piltover and Zaun. They work hextech, not polymorph. There’s Kennen, but Kennen is on the camp, has been for weeks, and is just one. He also does not do polymorph. Fae, but she’s called the Bladetwirler for a reason. There’s the folks that watch over the perimeter, but they work a lot like the scouts at home. Bandle has been on lockdown with Demacia since the kingdom began chasing after her, Kennen informed her about the Bandle Army forbidding anyone from stepping in Demacia-bound portals—

“Doesn’t end there,” Fae says. “They’re outlaws.”

Poppy can’t hold her frustration anymore at that. “ _Gods_.”

“Few humans and the outpost kin are arguing about letting them in. Humans don’t understand outlawry of kin that well.”

“Of course,” Poppy deadpans, pacing past Fae and exiting the forge with eager stomps after getting a firm hold on the Hammer. She doesn’t even grace her conversational partner with any further words. She whines internally; explaining outlawry to the humans means acknowledging the outlaws, which she doesn’t want to do.

They’re not supposed to be part of the group, and they're not supposed to be treated as such.


	2. Papaver Somniferum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve tried to put the minor characters from Legends of Runeterra in in subtle ways, not disrupting the careful headcanon this thing is built around, lol
> 
> Choice track: Tous Les Garçons et les Filles—Françoise Hardy

She arrives to what’s definitely a verbal quarrel at the gate; the small crowd that’s gathered before the imposing wooden structure includes Luxanna, Kennen, Akali, and a handful of lookout yordles. Not good. She can’t make out who the outlaws are amidst the group; people flutter around, blocking her view.

She thuds the Hammer on the grass. Hard. Fast. The ground under her feet vibrates. “Show me them,” she states, skipping any nonsense small talk. It’s not like they are _theoretically_ worth any etiquette.

The gatekeepers are already stepping out of the way as her command’s out; the humans follow reluctantly. Akali only moves when the Heart of the Tempest does; Luxanna gathers energy to intervene, and she offers the Lady of Luminosity a stern glare, making her rethink her course immediately. From behind herself, she hears the flutter of Fae’s footsteps nearing the congregation, braking near Kennen and quickly addressing him in Ionian in what she supposes is a debriefing.

 _Oh, but of course. Who else_. They’re bound by one gatekeeper and two, respectively; both have evidently fought to escape arrest and failed.

She cracks in a guffaw, feeling _dumb_ for not connecting the dots until the dots sat so blatantly connected in front of her. “You have some guts showin’ up here,” she says. The laughter stops; she’s baring fangs at the two mages. “But you’re not stupid, neither of you. So if you’re here you have a reason to. Fill me in.”

The Tiny Master of Evil assesses the situation swiftly. He ceases resisting the wardens’ clutch. Poppy notices grass stains rim the lower ends of his dark grey pants. “We’re here to be revolutionaries with you,” he hisses, cracking a shit-eating grin.

 _Ah, he can’t help but be a cheeky bastard, not even like this._ “Nah. You’ve been giving this camp one heck of a headache. You’re not dumb enough to try a stunt like that,” she answers, flicking the sorcerer’s button black nose with a middle finger. “Again. Try not lyin’ this round.”

It’s Lulu who answers now. “We need salt,” she whipmpers. “Maybe some pain meds, if you’ve got any leftovers, that’d be fresh.” Her neck muscles struggle keeping her head upright as she speaks; sweat beads her forehead, making strands of her purple flecks stick to it and the sides of her face. She looks _pitiful_.

“It’s not _just_ salt, or painkillers,” Veigar groans, shaking his head. “We’re low on rations; we got spotted trying to buy some at a town while polymorphed. Lulu’s spell fell flat midway; she’s been weak, not eating all she needs for her mana use. Guardsmen have been on our asses for days. Tough path to travel around here. Sun’s been shining like it wants to make fine yordle barbecue. She’s sick from hunger, thirst and exhaustion.”

He gulps, figuratively swallowing his pride with the saliva. “We’re here to beg, like a pair of worms. All I want is you let her nourish herself and rest. Don’t even have to worry about me. I’ve held through hunger and insomnia aplenty. Doesn’t kick me like it does her.”

He lets his knees weaken so the lookouts pinning him will get the cue and let him kneel. “Lulu’s sickly, frail, but a valuable asset. She’s made me promise she will repay everything with temporary healer and cook service, if you’ll let her, until we go on our merry way and never pester your cutesy little camp again.”

His posture is so froced it makes Poppy hold back laughter. It’s unexpectedly cathartic to see this being of ego on his knees before her like some low-wage servant. She can practically _smell_ his embarrassment, and that makes her wonder if this is a strategic move so Lulu can get her way; if so, she wonders _how_ _much_ the witch means to him that he will double down like this. They certainly look the part of their alibi; Veigar smells like the pooled sweat and mana of a yordle mage that’s been exercising beneath the merciless sunlight, and it _is_ summer...

“We shouldn’t bargain with outlaws,” mutters a lookout nervously, swapping concerned glances between the two captives and Poppy. “This is how you’re atoning,” he spits matter-of-factly at the prisoners. Lulu’s gone silent, something that serves as a warning that she’s _seriously_ compromised, if anything.

Her shoes are copiously muddy, Poppy notes; dark patches of sweat frame the neck and sleeve holes of her wrinkled sundress; her mane’s tied in a disheveled bun that’s come half-undone. It looks greasy and lifeless; it’s only sinking in Poppy’s mind how truly rugged the two look.

“Oh, _cool_.” Poppy’s ear follows the thick Ionia accent, tracing it back to Akali. “Nice to know this is what you shorties do with your family when they step a bit outta line.” She shifts her weight to her left leg, tilting her hip sassily. Hands land on her hipbones for final emphasis.

Kennen snaps back to her in pure Ionian, and they exchange a hissed, fast argument that Poppy doesn’t understand.

Most folk in the campwho’ve coursed different lands or worked diplomacy address each other in the international auxiliary language of Runeterra, with varying degrees of finesse; Lux, Garen and the Noxian Traitor are appropriately fluent from their constant cultural exchange. Akali hasn’t had as much practice; it shows in her accent and word choice.

Kennen’s voice is tinged with unmistakable reprimand, and for once Poppy witnesses Akali actually voice her disagreement. It’s rare for the assassin to defy his authority, much as she re-states she’s quit all subservience to the Kinkou.

“I’m with her,” Lux interrupts, pursing her lips afterwards, realizing the weight of challenging figures as big as the Keeper of the Hammer and the Heart of the Tempest. She shuffles on her feet, sinking into herself. Poppy stares at her dead-on, which gives her a cue: “You shouldn’t leave them alone in this land at this time...“ Any further elaboration crossfades to her looking down with reddened cheeks, crossing her arms tight.

“They didn’t try to _hit anyone_ here!” Snaps the former Fist of Shadow, pointing her right index repeatedly at Lux in supportive emphasis. She’s struggling with vocabulary, mind fogged by the heated discussion.“And the things they do in the city, they never _hit_ anyone, either. They talked and asked for salt and you took them down like _killers_ ‘cause they weren’t yordles _you_ like. What is the difference with what mage hunters do here—“

Poppy seizes the timeframe spent on re-escalating squabble to check on the intruders—Veigar remains kneeled, clenching his teeth in frustration he’s struggling to keep bridled; Lulu has given no further signs of life, her head limp. It makes Poppy suspicious.

“—cause there was a _justification_ for why they are denied the chance to live with the rest again! This is _not_ based on circumstances of birth!” Kennen’s finally raising his voice in efforts to placate both human women. Fae stands by him, firm, heels dug on the petrichor-reeking, humid soil in elegant stubbornness.

“Wait up,” Poppy says, waving her hand in a call for silence. The guard holding Lulu has had to step forward to keep balance, accommodating her weight. “Everyone, quiet for a sec’.”

The dispute dies down as the crowd attends to her. She paces the distance to the Fae sorceress, leaning down in an attempt to inspect her up close. She doesn’t react. “Crud.” She looks up at the guard. “Let ‘er go for a second.”

“No, ma’am!” She retorts, puffing her chest. She shakes her head with such vigor her long braid whips erratically. “How can we be sure she’s not fooling us with some... weird... trickery?” Everything in her body language suggests she is uncertain of what the sorceress could even _do_ , but is unwilling to leave any openings.

“Trust me,” Poppy reassures. “I’ll pin her down if she tries anything. She’s a twig. It won’t be hard.”

The other yordle shuffles in place, hesitant. Biting her lip, she relents. The pin around the little witch loosens bit by bit; just as her hands unwrap from the frail body, Lulu drops like a rag doll, without so much as an attempt to get footing. Her face unceremoniously thuds on the grass; she lands face-down-butt-up, her spine bent in an awkwardly steep curve.

It makes Poppy hop backwards. “Cuss!”

Veigar audibly resumes his writhing against the two males that pin him. “You _assholes_!” He snarls; Poppy snaps her head to him; he’s trying to brawl his way out their grip and towards the sorceress. The outlook who’d been holding her stands in place, eyes wide as plates, unsure of how to proceed.

Lux and Akali make a run for the knocked-out enchantress, much like him; Kennen clasps the latter’s wrist, making her whiplash; though she doesn’t force herself out of his grasp, she still rebels, barking at him in Ionian. They’re actually having a scream match at this point; neither keeps the stern ninja façade up anymore. She cuts Luxanna’s stride off, and the Crownguard scuffles with her, aiming to shove her away.

“What’s gotten into you?!” She yells, doing her darnedest to brake Lux’s efforts to scramble around her.

“I don’t know. Why don’t _you_ tell me?” Lux snarks back, drawing yet another puzzled look from Poppy’s wide eyes.

“What?”

She gives no answer, retorts to silent wrestling; Poppy defends steadfastly. She can make out the shapes of a few gatekeepers surrounding Lulu—she apparently hasn’t moved, resting on the grass as gracelessly as she landed.

“I had a lot of faith in what you mean to all of us as Keeper,” Lux fumes, frantic hands accentuating her exasperation. “And on master Kennen, too, as a sapient who helps bring things back into balance, and we all know that’s what Demacia needs most right now. And this is how you two _beacons of justice_ ,” she dots the moniker with bitter air quotes, “treat the kin you don’t like? You exile them, stop talking to them, acting like they never existed? How’s that in _any_ way different from what Jarvan did to mages? To what the Kinkou, as an order, did to Akali when she deserted? She told me how they treated her. The outlook told me what they know about those two. And _hell_ yes it _pisses_ me off, as it does her, pardon my Noxian!” She peers over Poppy with powerful stomps.

“You’ve let me down _so_ hard. You’ve let Akali down just as hard. To think you yordle people are just like _them_ ,” she gestures to the outlook kinaggressively, digging her parallel to the Vanguard in. “And to think you two defend this type of...” she doesn’t finish that thought, and Poppy’s been so distracted by the onslaught that Lux can finally veer her off path with a single move—she does so with surprising gentleness, though. “Sylas wouldn’t have gone down into the _insanity_ he’s gone down into if Demacia didn’t treat him like yordle kind treated these two. Eat _that_ up.”

She’s stupefied out of any will for action; from her side she spots Akali energetically loosening herself off her master, following the Lady of Luminosity to the tight gathering around Lulu and dispelling the yordles there.

Kennen’s tap on her the shoulder is what yanks her outta shock; her head’s swirling with memories, phantom pain around her arms and waist flares; she shudders, nauseated at the ethereal chilly squeeze of the chains.

“I’ll talk it over with the girls,” he says, stoic. “Watch over Veigar. Have him escorted to guest tent thirteen. I’ll have Lulu sent there. Fae will drag Lavande over. We don’t want a ruckus in the infirmary.”

She blinks rapidly, nods; goes fetch the hammer before planting herself front and center of the Tiny Master of Evil. Three wardens are on him now; Veigar’s not precisely the pinnacle of physical strength, but he’s _angry_.

She relieves one of them with a pat on the back. “Go have guest tent thirteen opened up and readied,” she says, offering him a dry salute before he scurries. Putting the Hammer down and squatting to be at his eye level, she pinches a spot at Veigar’s left shoulder, near the base of his neck, squeezing a soft spot; a technique Kennen had her master rather fast with precise instruction and boredom in lazy afternoons as fuel. The mage growls in pain, twitching.

“You stop playin’ hot bad boy right now,” she threatens. “You hit jackpot getting us to take her in. We’ll drag you to her same tent. Be a good boy and you’ll get food, shelter, and pardon. Do anything skeevy and it will _hurt_. I swear on Orlon.”

He nods, face twisted in a grimace; yields to the men, defeated. Poppy quickly surveils the surroundings; the human women lifted the enchantress off and drag her away; Fae’s already headee uphill full steam, in the direction of the communal service complex that hosts the infirmary. She turns back to the triad. “Guest tent thirteen,” she says to the two watchers, pulling a whining Veigar up by the shoulder and to his feet. “I’ll guard you two in case he gets all pumped up. Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was gonna be a two-shot but then it wasn’t.


	3. Papaver Bracteatum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like languages. 
> 
> This is where the canon divergence really starts to shine. I know Bandle’s supposed to be this warped dimension thing, but I prefer it as a civilization that grew and became a city while holed up in the spirit realm cause the other species hunted them (like Gnar’s mural implies) 
> 
> Choice track: Oh oh Chéri — Françoise Hardy 
> 
> In case you haven’t realized, I imagine Demacian to sound quite similar to French

The reliability of Ionian folk never ceases surprising her. 

Guest tent thirteen is open and ready for habitation; said number sewn into a side wall with bright red fabric. It sits in the tent complex the camp lends to passerby mages that need temporary shelter— or any other traveler not allied with Sylas or the King. Kennen chose wisely; the tent sits in the rear edge of the vaguely grid-like disposition of the complex, and she’s been able to escort Veigar’s transport there without having to navigate any communal areas, disturbing the inhabitants—or anyone occupying other guest tents.

She arrives to Fae disappearing behind its door-flaps; the main camp healer, Lavande, follows her suit. She’s preemtively tied her hair in a tight bun, wrapping it in a towel, and dries her freshly washed hands with a white cloth as she enters the scene.

Poppy can’t help but briefly ponder the vague discomfort a human-sized tent could bring the two yordles; she remains quiet about it, though.

“You two,” she calls to the guardsmen. “Leave him to me. Go to the gate, we still need folks watching the barrier. I’ll take him from here.”

They nod. She rests the Hammer inside, by the doorway; steps out to receive the cargo. Her hold’s even more oppressive than the lookouts’. He winces all the way through her dragging him inside by the neck.

She internally relishes the respite from the humid heat; the tents’ inside is pleasantly acclimated via enchantment to ease whatever weather outside. Right now, that means refreshing shade; mid-year sun’s so blinding it keeps the beige tent alight even with the window-flaps shut.

Lavande is already seated on a stool besides Lulu, who’s breathing, but remains half-conscious, sprawled sideways on one of the two available individual beds. A spell floats a over her— a baby blue orb that fans her; her bangs and the peach fuzz of her face flutter subtly to its breeze. Heat stroke had to be Lavande’s first guess, Poppy muses. She shoves Veigar further in with a second tug, gracelessly lands him on the floor, next to the healer, cautious to not stray too far from the Hammer if needed.

Lavande presses her left palm to Lulu’s chest and her right to her temple; a posture Poppy already recognizes as the measuring of vitals. “She’s breathing evenly,” she informs the entourage in Demacian. The keeper hears Veigar’s relieved exhale; his muscles tangibly loosen and he slumps against the bed frame; Akali, too, lets a puff out her nose once Lux fills her in in Runeterran Auxiliary.

“Her heart is pretty rowdy,” Lavande continues, methodical. “She doesn’t have a temperature, there’s no sunburn.” Gestures of her hands show her tentatively measuring the witch from head to sole; she wraps her middle finger and thumb around her wrist, counting the leftover space to calculate its diameter. “Bit thin and short, for species standards...”

She lifts Lulu’s sundress out of the way partially; the little witch whines like a child being roused for school. Her leggings are deftly pulled down, displaying Lavande’s expertise at minimal-touch physicals. “There’s mild bruising and scratching in... plenty of places,” she observes, manhandling the sorceress, observing from different angles. “Some of these are quite fresh, two days at most. Some appear weeks-old.” She redresses her patient, placing her in a comfortable rest position, and spins, legs crossing, to deliver a final report: “It doesn’t seem to be heat stroke, like I thought at first. She’s not malnourished enough that she should be fainting from it, and the bruises and scratches aren’t deep as to cause infection or internal wounds. I don’t know why her lights went out,” she concludes, gaze scanning the whole entourage, unsure of who she should be addressing in particular. Lux translates to Akali; the room holds heavy awkward silence aside of her whispering.

“This is why we need the salt,” Poppy hears the mage say. His voice drags pathetically. “It helps when she goes out like that.”

She looks him up and down, arching a brow. “How do you know about it?” She asks, addressing him in Bandle tongue.

He shakes his head. Fatigue seems to be overcoming him now that his fighting spirit’s dying out. “ _She_ knows it. She’s the one to use it. I couldn’t tell you how she learned. Salt and ice cold water. It does miracles.”

Poppy blinks in compliance. One thing she’s learned from encountering with the witch is her motives are best left without questioning. It’s like her explanations are comprehensible for a layman, anyways.

“Lavande,” she calls, smoothly transitioning back to Demacian. “Could you please fetch us some salt and iced water?”

As she accepts with a curtsy and leaves, Poppy pinches the nerve at the base of his neck again, making him twist in her fingers. “You better not do anything funny with that water and salt,” she threatens in her native tongue. “I’ll give the humans a chance to prove their point, but you’re still an outlaw. You’re gonna wish the Vanguard found you if you stab our back. We clear?”

“If I wanted to do anything funny instead of just helping her,” he answers not missing a beat, “you wouldn’t be standing there anymore. Trust me.”

All it earns him is being bulldozed against the wooden frame so brutally it wrings his breath out. “Fine,” Poppy says. “If all you _really_ want is to save this accursed yordle for whatever reason, so be it.” She drags him to a bedpost like he’s a potato sack and produces thin rope from her utility belt, an accessory she’s learned to carry various stuff into since she heads the camp. It’s there for this exact purpose—if she needs to restrain something the Lookout caught up. In mere seconds, with her teeth’s aid, his wrists are bound around it.

“You stay here while I get your weird medicine,” she states, exiting the tent with powerful stomps, not giving him any opening to talk back.

The sun is scorching outside; Lavande’s examination has given the sky enough time to burn at its half-hour-past-noon peak. The crowd has taken their cue and left sometime while she was distracted; they might have been dispatched by Kennen to return to duty, seeing how only he and the two humans sit by the tent, holding a quiet discussion in Runeterran Auxiliary.

Poppy’s been well-taught by father Blomgrun; she knows not to eavesdrop on others’ affairs, but her politeness is crumbling apart since Sylas’ upheaval, and so she finds herself picking on the conversation besides her, much as she nags herself for it.

“—doesn’t sound as a good reason to ban her,” Akali says. She appears frustrated. Judging by how Kennen and her face each other, whereas Luxanna lingers around to her side, the Tempest is trying to even her emotions after their argument. He’s really levered his temper with time. 

“I understand. But you also need to listen to what I say, little _kunai_. Bandle works this way because everything outside it is uncontrollable. Missteps of the population can compromise the entire city. Everything needs to be overtly stable so the outside can’t break us. Yordle kind functions best united. Disruptive links weaken the chain.”

The former Kinkou sighs. “Like him, maybe I can understand. Got pulled from the world and was isolated and that is bad for you so he didn’t go out well and he’s got blood on him and you guys don’t know what he could do. But just asking herself about why people do things like they do? Playing? Using magic? Is that really it?”

Lux nods to her claim in agreement.

“She didn’t keep her magic in check. What was fun to her was reckless to the others, and Bandle folk are always on edge from the unknown outside. You know the spirit realm is unpredictable. All they can do is defend. Bandle can’t come back to Runeterra. Kin leaving to the spirit realm opened our breach with the material realm even further. Though,” Poppy sees him coax both human girls with his finger, and the two bend forward to him. “Between you rebel girls and I, I do think they are too strict already. A lot of the kin who were born there and walked outside, we were just tired of the folk.”

Akali tries to hold her giggle in, covers her mouth. “You did a Kinkou on them,” she whispers at him. Poppy can’t resist looking and finds her inches from the Tempest’s face, her eyes glinting playfully. “Sharp minds think alike, don’t they?”

He quips back in Ionian, something Poppy has found the locals do when they want what they say to stay secret. Akali snorts, breaking into laughter, now covering her entire face; she gives back another quip, making her master laugh in unison.

Poppy clears her throat, drawing attention to herself, casually paces towards the trio. Kennen says something else to Akali in Ionian, and she bites down on her lip beaming, visibly flustered.

“Oi,” Poppy greets, dropping on her butt in front of Luxanna. “Sorry to eavesdrop, but I heard you chat about the city. And I figured, might as well be a good time to let you in on a fun fact.” She tightens her left pigtail, feeling it too undone. Without the forge attire top on, she doesn’t sport her usual bulky look; it’s one of the rare occasions in which one may get a glimpse of the body underneath, her simple tank top figure-fitting enough. Lux appears interested already; Poppy’s not one to speak much about anything before Orlon.

“Kennen’s right,” she says, sighing. “They take it too far. They are playful and cheery but sharp as a knife under all the jokes and laughs. Now that you’ve seen others of our kin, you see I am tall next to them, no? Well, that _is_ why I left. I was done with their looks and with everyone leading a life so trivial all they had to think about was how weird the tall girl of class Nine A was.” She catches herself accidentally leaking an important detail, and looks to the side, blushing. She can physically feel Kennen’s smile over her.

“Nine A!” He says in native Bandle, deepening her embarrassment. He addresses the human girls, and a bit of his character before years of Kinkou discipline leaks out before them. “Nine A was the group we were both in at the Military Institute,” he tells them in Auxiliary, laughing. “It was six of us friends, and we were the troublemakers. It doesn’t surprise me most them ended up leaving, including me. Two of them still live there... They’re still outsiders. We were the corner of people the class didn’t like too much.”

His tone borders deep nostalgia as he monologues; Poppy observes him and his eyes are positively glowing as he draws spirals in the dirt before him with a fingertip.

“That was a long time ago, now...” he muses, turning his gaze back at the two humans. “I hadn’t thought about it for a while. We don’t visit each other a lot anymore. Too much work to do. I’m surprised Poppy and I got to meet up in the first place.”

“So there you have it.” She looks at the girls as well. “Bandle’s not that big a place. There was only one other class, Nine B. Chances are, most of us kin outside who were born in the city know each other. The people in Runeterra settlements, like Fae... I don’t know them well, but Kennen, I do. And that’s the fun fact.”

She traces footsteps with her ear, and glances up to see Lavande jog to the tent with a clay jug in one hand and a glass salt shaker on the other. “I’ll be going now,” she says to the three quickly, standing up and giving them a fast curtsy. As she paces back in the tent shade, she can hear Akali rant at full speed in Ionian, presumably releasing a barrage of questions at her master.

* * *

Indeed, Lulu is up about ten minutes past Lavande poking saltwater into her mouth with a clean handkerchief.

Right about now, color’s quickly returning to her face, the cooling spell dissolved; and Poppy’s sent the healer for some bread and tea, taking place escorting her and Veigar, who’s just been moved from being captive at the bed’s bottom to being captive at the bedpost next to the witch. They chatter idly over their supply inventory in Bandle tongue.

It’s jarring for the Keeper to feel background noise in her native language; she’s been upholding the shelter for a while, she and Kennen so busy with resistance scheming and sustaining the people there that neither keeps touch with the homeland. Even if she did, she hasn’t been there since Sylas’ assault, and that was spent mostly in limbo.

A fire in her gut burns for a vacation, filling her mind with smoke dreams of honey mead and talking to Trist from dinner until dusk; Demacia’s not in condition for that, though.

She returns to her eavesdropping of the mages, estranged by the domesticity with which they talk; Lulu’s teasing him about a dessert recipe she wants to try that the Master of Evil sounds surprisingly enticed by, despite his usual monotone. Veigar’s lack of hostility with the enchantress bothers her; she’s never found him this much _not-angry_ with anyone. They’ve been discussing other homely matters while Poppy silently gawks at the forbidden scene, like she’s witnessing something she should not.

She receives the plate and cup from Lavande as the woman is about to step in the tent. “You don’t have to do that. Go back to the infirmary, they need you there. I’ll watch over these two. I’ll call if I need help, don’t worry.”

The healer agrees, filling her in on lunch in the communal dining room; Poppy thanks her with a curtsy, telling her she’ll tend to that after finishing here.

She sends her off with a polite smile, and enters the tent, placing the cup atop Lulu’s lap and handing her the plate. She flops on the opposite side of the bed, crossing her legs in lotus position; a human bed is big enough to comfortably host two yordles. Her eyes dig into Veigar and Lulu.

“So what is it that you two are?” she drops on them, crossing her arms.

Lulu bites into the bread eagerly, sipping her milk tea to help her swallow; the bite’s gone in a second, and Poppy gets answered, the sorceress narrowing her eyes. “It’s rude to eavesdrop,” she snaps. “Plus, I thought outlaws were of no interest to you legal yordles.” She dots the sentence taking another bite and loudly slurping the tea, not steering her eyes off the Keeper for one second while she chews.

Poppy widens her nostrils. The table’s turned on her just like that. She wants to muster up an excuse, but can’t make anything believable, and so glares at her own feet, her face burning.

“It would be none of your business, for the record,” Veigar says.

“Fine,” Poppy groans, trying to regain her footing. “If you two are gonna hide being lovebirds, you’re doing it so badly even _I_ see it, so you wanna work on that. Dessert? _Seriously_?” She spins back to the edge of the mattress, hopping off. “Get that bread down fast, Lulu. I need to chaperone you two younguns in heat so you don’t do any funky moves, and I’m so hungry I would eat you if you actually had _any_ meat on your bones.” She walks her way back to the entrance. “And I don’t want you groping each other in front of me, _for the record._ ”

“We’re older than you,” the sorceress says, muffled; her mouth is stuffed with bread. It feels like a deliberate attack on Poppy’s attention to manners, and she hates that the most.

“Then act like it,” she responds without facing them.

* * *

By nightfall, after dinner, she’s had her belongings moved to guest tent twelve, sitting left of the thirteenth. She pondered taking the one in front, but the sidelines were closer by; she didn’t pick the same tent in fear she would hear them have sex, something she’s decided she neither wants nor needs. After dressing herself in a nightgown, she flops exhausted on the mattress, wrapping with the covers; dead tired after following the mages around all day and dragging them to her duties as camp runner.

The tent, outfitted for humans and Vastaya, feels void, even with the Hammer and a few of her things inside; it’s not homely, like her quarters in the yordle sector are, and no one else occupies it; when she turns her gas lamp off, the noises of the night actually bother her. She curls into a tight ball, covering her head with the blanket. The cold pain of Sylas’ chains is already snaking its way inside inside her mind, phantom metal tightening around her midriff, digging in her sides. She won’t sleep too peacefully tonight, she concludes, sighing.

No big deal. She will get used to nights on this tent. _You’re still safe at the camp. You’ve gotten used to worse._


	4. Papaver Argemone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choice Track — La Madrague; Brigitte Bardot 
> 
> This one took so long cause I was re-editing often until the vibe actually satisfied me 
> 
> Next one is the last and on we go to whatever else, lol

Poppy hates to admit it, but the camp’s food has picked up surprising liveliness after Lulu’s started kitchen duty. Everything she’s eaten, no matter how simple, tastes so good she wants to cave and be a glutton and grab a second, third serving. Lavande also appears quite peppy, if confused at times, since having her as an assistant. Poppy doesn’t like questioning her morals, and she doesn’t like to question Teemo and Tristana’s motives for her outlawry; but at a certain point she’s stuck her vigilance mostly to Veigar. The enchantress is chaotic, but keeps benign inclinations, and appears entertained just nursing folk and making food. Veigar and her are paid with a tidbit of gold, supplies, and raw ingredients he has helped grow and harvest at the camp’s plot, sparing magic— _Dark_ _Magic’s no friend of plants_ , he says—raising them up just with hands, brain, and Lulu’s advice.

Poppy, too, takes over a lot of garden and building work while not at the forge, her muscular build easing her all the camp’s heavy labor; Lux and Garen and the Noxian have been the ones to take the brunt of strategic defense work since the pair arrived at its inception, while Kennen now does the brainpower of logistics. Poppy doesn’t see herself as smart enough for that; she’s in her element sweating under the ruthless mid-summer sun, pulling out weeds and digging holes for new plants. This has unwittingly led her to speak lots to the mage, which in turn had her learning how cunning he can be. Which bothers her on a fundamental level, of course.

And that brings her back to where she is now, having lunch break with him in the cafeteria. Lulu’s made a rather nondescript-looking salad that still makes Poppy hold back the impulse of stuffing it down mercilessly like a savage, and lemonade that heals her body and spirit in equal measure. Veigar seems pretty delighted with his ration; the sorceress has saved him a small extra, placing a tiny biscuit that teases the Keeper on the edge of his plate, as she does every day. She insists it’s so he’s revitalized for his work, which Poppy can understand; Veigar’s rather scrawny, the past two weeks of labor-for-supplies only making him leaner. She’s also agreed to lend him a tiny square of land where he can grow plants he and Lulu dry for spells. Whatever, so long as he helps out at the forge enchanting weapons, and with the inventory, and the garden, she won’t pry.

He bites into the biscuit with a pleased sigh, already having wiped the plate clean off any salad; chugs it down with the remaining lemonade.

“What’s in that?” She asks, finally braving to do so after a streak of days of working alongside him. It distresses her, how they have unintentionally bonded, how her bickering with both of them has simmered into casual exchanges. “She always leaves you one, only you.”

“It’s enchanted to kill pain and enhance my strength,” he lectures. “We decided she could make a batch and give me one a day, or doing muscle work would have killed me in three days or so. I’m best at brains, but I need to be surveilled like a baby for some reason, so I’m stuck.” He shrugs, staring into her. He’s shirtless right now, resigned to wearing not much other than white pants and leather boots; the robe and gauntlets prove just too much in the heat. Poppy’s had more than her share of whines about how he detests showing his scar-littered body. He’s been rather calm about it lately, though.

“That’s cheating,” Poppy teases, flashing him a lopsided smirk. “Feel the pain and beef up with hard work like we laymen do. The gain is not worth it without the sacrifice.”

“I beef up on other things through hard work,” he says, tapping his temple; he has a talent for shooting back without giving Poppy a breather. “Literal beef is easier to cheat at, and I’d rather use that energy on mind and magic.”

Poppy nods shallowly in acceptance, sipping the last of her lemonade. “Different strokes,” she says, eyes focused on the lemon seeds at the bottom of her metal cup. “Speaking of minds and magics and other smart things I don’t get, we have forge shift. Last night Garen and Du Coteau told me they want an enchantment done on their blades, and Garen on his armor as well.”

“Garen?” Veigar inquires, lifting an eyebrow. “How the tables turn,” he mutters, placing his cutlery atop the plate to carry it back to the kitchen wash.

“Lux has eased him into magic.” Poppy, too, piles her dishes, taking his lead. “He’s seen her light up the camp every night for months and watched lots of other people use spells that cure and help. Heck, I pummel stuff with a hammer, I live by that, and I hated you two and your insane magic, and I’ve let Lu spark wild growth on the spices of your plot.” She shrugs, following him hastily, snaking around other patrons in the dining lot. “One can get used to anything after seeing it enough,” she dots.

“Tell me about it,” he drones, and Poppy feels like she’s missing a deeper meaning to it. He puts his china down in the washing area and thoroughly scrubs his cup with a dried luffa that serves the camp as a scourer. “The stars have ironic ways to play out history.”

Poppy shrugs once more, unsure of what to say. Veigar’s gaze is light years away; he rinses his plate and cutlery and wipes them with a rag in the sink like an automaton. She suddenly feels like she’s just dreaming; like her hands and the water and the second luffa she rubs on her own tableware is all an illusion. Indeed, one can get used to anything. Life in the camp is nothing like her search for the Hero was. She hasn’t handed the hammer over in months; she still has to go fetch it from their table’s side before leaving. She frowns.

“I’d like to be clean and robed for the forge,” he says, pulling her out of it as they leave everything to dry in the rack. “Does the chaperone allow this maiden to bathe and dress so she won’t have to work half-naked?” He adds, batting his eyelids and placing his hands under his chin with dramatic flair.

Poppy tries not to smile at how silly it is, but can’t help it. “Sure. I should actually follow on your steps. Garen and the missus are just eating now, anyway. We have a while.” She points with an arc of her face, guiding the warlock’s eyes to the redhead raving about the lemonade and the supplementary cook’s talent in rather amateur Demacian. It makes Veigar puff his chest with pride; don a snide smirk.

They step out to the dirt path carved on grass, heading for the guest tent complex, chatting— Early afternoon starts, and though the sun’s calmed down, it hasn’t been by much. She admits to him that Lulu’s growth spell really helped the herbs on their corner of the plot, and asks if he could get her to cast it over other plants, bearing his obligatory mockery. He also takes time to address her on a few structural reinforcements for his staff, worn from travel and constant use.

“Luxanna’s also needing a secondary staff,” she tells him as they enter the complex. “She’s giving her war one a lot of use just lighting the place up at dusk. I’d prefer she has a lightweight one for simple things. Her main one is best off for battle. Maybe I can patch yours up after that.”

She sees the guy who took tent three four days ago step out, his blond hair messy; he yawns and rolls his shoulders as he paces past them, acknowledging her with a nod and a debonair smile. He’s either drained from his trek or he’s _fond_ of the nightly entertainment and that gets him to sleep in. His Piltie gear sticks out like a sore thumb among the Demacians and Ionians that make up most of the camp. It surprised Poppy how fluent he was in Runeterran Auxiliary, showing it off when he introduced himself. Luxanna seemed fascinated as he spoke; Poppy has had glimpses of them hanging out since then.

She returns her attention to Veigar; they stop in front of tent thirteen. “Y’know I hate saying this, but with a shelter as magical as _this_ ,” she makes a whimsical gesture with her fingers, vaguely pointing everywhere around her, “I really gotta bow down and ask you and Lu to teach me stuff about forging magic channels. I don’t want all mages to break their staves. Everyone helps this place’s upkeep, I gotta hand them the tools. It helps if you want yours fixed, too.”

“Please allow me to stop reeking of agricultural work before I do,” is his answer. “I can spare you a lesson or two anytime, but I can’t take showing so much skin any longer.” He briefly crosses his arms in a transparent attempt of partially covering his torso.

Both their ears track footsteps, and Lulu’s tackling the wizard the following instant; her hair’s up in a bun wrapped over in cloth, a dainty sun visor shades her face; a human child-sized apron’s been snugly fit over one of her numerous _eye_ - _searingly_ colorful sundresses. “Oi,” she greets, resting her chin on the warlock’s shoulder. She has to tippy toe to do so; Poppy bites the inside of her cheek to subside her amusement.

The sorceress runs her fingers through the thicker tuft of fur on Veigar’s chest, tugging it lightly. “Are you headed to the creek? I’m just off kitchen hour and I feel disgusting and you’re all gross too. Let’s bathe together.” Indeed, Poppy observes, the peach fuzz of her face and arms is damp and gathering in clumps, glued by sweat.

“Yes,” he answers, reaching his arm behind to grab her waist. “I’ve gotta go to the forge soon. If you want to bath with me we better be heading off already.”

“Neat,” she says, releasing him to head towards the tent, stopping mid-spring in a dramatic skid to look back at Poppy. “You going to the creek too? You look like you’re fresh out of a brawl on some shady alley behind a tavern.”

Poppy nods, cheeks heating. She’ll have to give this outfit its needed weekly wash soon;it’s already dyed from soil smears and grass stains. Lulu flashes her a thumbs-up and disappears behind the tent flaps.

“I’ll walk further down the creek, don’t worry,” she tells Veigar, her eyes still focused on the tent’s threshold. The fabric flutters suggestively to the early afternoon breeze. “I’ll leave you two be.”

* * *

Lulu’s left for farm shift, agreeing to a plea from the keeper to magic tomato plants, roots, and berry shrubs to help the harvest, and Poppy’s already donned her forge gear when the Might of Demacia and the Sinister Blade enter the clay hut—the forge, kitchen, infirmary, and food storage are the four structures in the entire complex that hold actual clay walls.

The woman lets a puff of air and fans herself stepping in; Poppy’s been heating a slender metal rod while mulling what to fashion for the Lady of Luminosity’s staff. Veigar’s helped her pick out a properly conductive metal, along with some general pointers on length and weight, and he now sits in a shaded corner of the forge skimming a tome in a last, quick evaluation of ways to buff equipment.

Poppy acknowledges Katarina with a polite nod of her head—forge gear isn’t too friendly to strip frequently for casual conversation. She nods back, and it’s only when Garen steps inside in full that the Keeper decides to release her little project to greet the two proper. She clears her throat at Veigar, who closes the tome with a thud; he’s not wearing nearly as thick an outfit, settling for something that covers his gruesomely scarred chest and back but also helps survive the forge’s asphyxiating heat; black fur appears to be a curse during Runeterran midsummer, especially when factoring the shame he feels over his body, Poppy’s seen.

“Alas, the Might of Demacia wants his belongings enchanted. Speak of a development.”

The Keeper’s been stunned a couple of times by how upbringing changes demeanor since she’s had the chance to speak to folk from many a nation. she notices it just now: Her features and Garen’s stiffen in stern disapproval and embarrassment, whereas Veigar and Katarina—infused with Noxii morale—smirk in unison.

Wiping her thick onesie off soot, she decides to give better example. “Greetings,” she says rather flatly, pulling her mask up and with the appropriate curtsy, in Demacian; Katarina’s made a point of speaking and hearing it as much as she can, arguing she can’t feasibly return to her land, and so should get used to the local tongue. “I wish I could be of more help to you two today,” her eyes glisten at Garen with a blend of admiration and shame. “But I’m no mage. So I took one of our new heads to do the job. He’s deft at magic. I’ll work on a new staff for Lux meanwhile, one she can use for everyday duty.”

She and the Crownguard exchange a second look, his blue eyes shimmer with gratitude. “Thank you,” he answers, tilting his head forward in a brief bow.

“Are you Demacians so fancy all times?” The Blade says in Demacian, gutting the weird tension like she does fresh hunts. “All these—“ she does an over-exaggerated curtsy, and Poppy purses her lips at Veigar’s snort. “Calm down. I just want a magic so knife cuts very good.”

Seeing this battle-torn, sharp-edged Amazon speak with such clumsy grammar endears her to a degree she can’t explain, and though she’s seemingly geared back up and returned to her smithing, she can spot Garen’s shoulders loosen awkwardly through her peripheral view, and hyper-focuses on stoking the heat to not burst in laughter.

Stuck among the Ionians, Veigar, Lulu, the piltie, and Kat, she can almost _see_ the change in her own demeanor day-to-day, and it feels akin to staring into one of those paintings from the City of Progress that are just scribbles and shapes—vivid, abstract, _confusing_. She’s becoming something else; whatever _Poppy_ means, it’s shifting in front of her eyes, and she’s letting that current drag her, surprising her old self.

“This one, it helps fast hands, don’t it?” The metal is almost suited to begin manipulating and so she can glance up to Katarina patting her chest with her left and pointing at some random symbol with her right. “Saw symbol, on some soldiers, the axes and swords. Very agile. Beautiful.”

Her attempts make Poppy’s mind flush with memories of herself putting her all into speaking to Orlon, gesturing half of each sentence and wasting hours writing words in the sand with a finger, reciting them, reading poems and singing songs; her whole body tingles with nostalgic warmth. She blinks rapidly, suppressing it. That’s another thing that’s been sporadically happening for a while. She shakes it off, rolling her shoulders and grounding herself to dull her heartbeat.

She’s decided to flatten both ends and cut them in the shape of sparks, a way of telling Lux that it’s been fashioned with her in mind. _You should also probably add a thicker grip to catch the brunt of spell casting. Oh, and some repoussé on the sparks for texture. Should probably heat a second piece for the grip..._

* * *

“—and this is fashioned for armor and shields. It hardens them with a field of magic that repels impact. Think of paint that’s incredibly tough; it sits atop the metal, invisible until it is hit. I studied yet another one that shifts odds and chance around the armor. It does a warp that will make the enemy randomly miss assault. You won’t feel it and it won’t control you against your will, what it is changing is the universal property. The space-time fabric itself, not your skill.”

“Complicated,” mumbles the ex-Vanguard, stunned. “I... cannot fathom how that’s possible to do.”

“You don’t need to. Just tell me which of them you find best for your case.” Veigar fiddles with the thin charcoal pencil he’s holding.

“Hardening,” is his hesitant reply. “The one that bounces damage back feels dishonorable... the chance one, I...” he shakes his head in a clear display that it’s beyond him. “I like the weight one. Making all this armor easier to carry. I _do_ wear it almost daily...” he sighs. Poppy notices the uncertainty on his face. He drags a naked hand all the way through, wiping sweat off and loosening his jaw muscles. “Forgive me. Talking to a yordle so casually, so he can bewitch my armor, I...” He chuckles awkwardly. “This is all so new.”

“You get used to it,” Katarina quips, swapping to Auxiliary. She’s lounging around both men, browsing Veigar’s grimoire; her fingers flip the pages so fast it’s clear she doesn’t really understand anything in it. “You’re gonna start wondering how you went this long without enchantments soon, trust me,” she teases, flipping several sheets with a thumb, eyes rapidly skimming them with transparent confusion. Poppy relates. She seizes the fact she’s well hidden underneath her smithing mask to freely indulge in smiling at the assassin’s unexpected soft side, her fingers deftly extending into tools employed for smoothing the joint between two embosses she’s added to the staff tips and the base rod, thus hardening the structure. It admittedly looks pretty cool, and she’s proud of herself.

“I suppose,” he says, unconvinced. “Garen-from-a-few-years-ago would stare me down in disbelief.”

Veigar’s putting the glyphs down in a small piece of parchment to transfer them to metal afterwards with Poppy’s assistance. The Blade shuts the tome with a snap of her hand, her brain scrambled enough by arcane babble, and lands it to his right, creeping over his shoulder, ogling his work. “I mean, we can make out in the open,” she says, shrugging, “and I don’t have some asshole adoptive half-brother trying to kill me and acting like he’s hot shit. Those are two wins for me.” The corners of her lips perk.

Her smirk grows into a beam when she hears the Might of Demacia’s hearty, relaxed laugh. “Well, I suppose!”

The metal juncture looks smooth, _finally_ ; Poppy lifts her work-in-progress with tongs and dips it in cool oil, delighted with the hearty fizz. She lets the excess drip, leaves it to rest. Should be done the day after tomorrow at most. “Are we ready to begin carving?” She asks Veigar, swapping the heat protection visor for a lighter one for shrapnel. She feels if she keeps the heat one on she will straight up _stew_. Sweat’s flattened her fur to her skin, her face glistens; droplets run down her forehead. She cools herself with the fan she uses to stoke the coals.

“Yes ma’am,” is Veigar’s answer as the puts down a final charcoal stroke with a triumphant arc of his arm. He grabs both patterns, hopping on his feet to deliver them. “I tried to design them so we won’t need to tweak anything after the fact. Don’t wanna go through this hassle twice. Hand me one of those, I don’t want to lose an eyeball unless it’s on an epic face-off.” He drops both parchments on the work area, right by the keeper.

She rolls her eyes. “A second pair’s there,” she says, pointing with a thumb to a stack of wooden drawers where she stores replacements for a number of her tools.

As the mage digs in the drawers one by one, the forge door slams open, revealing a panting, spent, but clearly excited Lulu; hands ashen with dust, boots and knees soiled of mud. She doesn’t announce her entrance, or otherwise abide to any etiquette—only sprints her way to him, hugging him from behind and dragging her fingertips down his chest. “Smart Vei. Bright Vei. Those plants are _stunning_ ,” she says, nibbling his nape and landing a few pecks upwards, standing on her toes. “You did a sublime job. There’s gonna be some really juicy harvest now, all cause you got so good at gardening. _Mwah_.” She kisses her fingertips and lands them on both sides of his face.

He spins on his heel to face her, safety visor held on the left, scratching the crown of her head with his right. “Well, if the lady of botany herself says so, I’m assured I did well now.” The shiver of flattered embarrassment that shakes Lulu makes Poppy warm inside.

“Well that’s extra good, cause Pix helped me spur some of ‘em a bit,” she answers. “Summer solstice’s real soon. We’re gonna have some _crème-de-la-crème_ stuff to eat. I’m gonna make a meal that’ll make you want third rations.” She bounces in place, barely holding her joy.

Poppy’s taken off guard.

 _Summer solstice..._ She hadn’t kept Bandle celebrations in her mindscape for a while. Demacia did not much more than a passing acknowledgement of the day; the nature-bound reverence yordles had to cheer and embrace such things was rather scarce among the humans, she’d noted. People would apparently only celebrate in Shurima and Ixtal, where traces of ancient spirit lineage sustained that type of formality, and a percentage of the more esoteric-inclined Ionian groups. Of course, Kennen did. She wondered if Fae and the Lookout crowd partook in it. She hadn’t even questioned that until now.

“...Enough rations to probably leave the second day after the solstice,” she catches Lulu saying, yanking her out of her thoughts. “But there are yordles here and those parties are cheerier when there’s folk around. We won’t even do anything important if it’s just us on the road,” she rants, observing the Master of Evil pick his preferred carving tools from the assortment. “And I think the others would like it, too, nay?” He’s only nodding back and giving her a couple approval hums to show he’s listening.

Katarina props her weapons flat on the work anvil; Veigar gives one last look to the pattern before coaxing the Keeper’s attention with a snap of his fingers—she blinks awkwardly, obeys.

It’s the Noxian that cuts them off, phrasing a question Garen clearly shares, if his expression is any clue. “What’s all that about?”

“Yordles feast when natural events occur,” answers Lulu seamlessly. “Nature gives us everything we have, metal for weapons, wood for fire, plants and flesh for nurture, cotton for cloth. We rever her, deservingly so. We celebrate in her name. The biggest one is in spring, cause everything’s coming back to life after resting; but we do it for every reminder she has throughout the year of her immeasurable, all-consuming power. Or, well, at least they do so in Bandle City.” She stutters that last statement, forces a faux cough; it pangs Poppy’s heartstrings.

“The longest day of the year is in three days; through the solstice, God Sun, one of Nature’s own offspring, reminds us he’s the one who gives us all light, feeds the flora, and warms land dwellers. We stay up to watch him finish coursing our world, and then party for a bit; the men ask favors if they need to, for they are Sparks of the Sun and he protects them, and we sleep. Mild in comparison to Spring, but better than just letting Sun show off his strength without cheering him on... We’ll party here, we haven’t seen other yordles for a long time. They don’t welcome us.”

Dense silence falls between the three members of the species, and the humans sense it; Poppy clears her throat and grabs the topmost pattern. The two mages have been respectable guests all through their stay; she’d rather not dive into a debate on their outlawry.

“I don’t think Sun would be upset if humans joined in,” Lulu continues, squeezing her face to her hand, inspecting her mate’s glyph and Poppy’s estimations of where to place it. “So if you tall folk would like a new experience, you should come watch the sunset. I mean, unless the Ionians say yordles only. But we two,” she points between her and the warlock, “don’t abide to others’ rules. Sun probably thinks it foolish to keep people from praising him, in my opinion.”

The sorceress simmers into silence, and Poppy senses her tinged with conflicting emotions. The fact Lulu continues such firm spirituality despite her outlawry throws her off, but the emotion is too complex for her to break down. Maybe it’s embarrassment because _she_ hasn’t kept up with all of Nature’s obligations, and she’s not even barred from Moon’s holy protection. She hopes not. She decides not to pry her own soul further. Smithing’s easy. Feelings are hard.

She’s already on work mode when Lulu speaks again, making her jump. “ _Oh well!_ ” She chirps loudly, dusting her dress; it was relatively clean and her hands have just smeared soil on it, achieving the exact opposite of her apparent intention. “I have to go help at the kitchen with meal prep for tonight. Hope you’ll join us in three days, ma’am Keeper.” she sing-songs the nickname, and it flusters Poppy, though she has no good reason to feel so. _How’d that get a reaction?_

“Gods know, you could use some down time,” she adds, her voice velvety, Poppy stares miles away as she makes her way out; bitter pools in the back of her throat, her hold on the parchment falters, and it hits her, dull, flat, dizzying, like a whack of her own hammer: She feels bad that Lulu’s an outlaw. She feels bad that Veigar’s an outlaw. And she does so because she cares for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no pain no gain - poppy 2020


End file.
